They were bumping into each other again. Their marriage only a month or two old, Ike and Corabeth Walton Godsey were learning a new form of mathematics. Probability. The probability that Corabeth would be in the same exact spot Ike would attempt to reach, at the exact same time. The probability that Ike would use a word or phrase that completely mortified his wife. The probability that they would find yet another difference of personality to be hurdled.
This particular Saturday morning it was the post office. No matter how often Ike tried to sort the mail, Corabeth found a way to interrupt. He would hear her moving items in the store and would rush out to check on her. She would answer the phone, and he would stop to make sure she was giving correct information. And the mail remained unsorted.
On another day, they might have become annoyed with each other--snapping, then shyly apologizing. But there was a sweet hint of honeysuckle in the air, and the sun spread a golden glow over everything. Today, these little disturbances, far from being exasperating, seemed endearing in the cool Blue Ridge morning.
“Corabeth, what are you doing?” Ike looked up from the mail to see his new wife, perched precariously on a chair just next to the stove.
“Do you know how dusty it is up here, Mr. Godsey?”
The storekeeper stared at her in amazement. Was she really dusting the stove pipe? Atop a rocking chair? “Honey, get down from there. You’re going to--”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Godsey.” She leaned over, peering into the office. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I said...” He abandoned the mail yet again, stepping out into the store. “You shouldn’t be up on that chair. It’s dangerous.”
“It’ll only be a minute. Hold it steady, and I’ll dust the other side.”
With a sigh, Ike leaned on the chair to steady it, placing him eye-level with his wife’s -- assets. He grinned broadly, enjoying the view. “Take your time, sweetie.”
“Actually, I’m done.” She turned on the chair, tripping over his outstretched arm and stumbling. Fortunately, he caught her as she fell. Breathless, she held to him for a long moment before struggling back to her feet.
Ike let out the breath he’d caught in his chest as she fell. “Corabeth, I mean it. You need to be more careful. What if I hadn’t been here?”
“Well,” she responded, quickly pulling her dignity back around her. “I wouldn’t have tripped over you.”
“Look, I just--” He shook his head, letting go of her to point at the stove pipe she’d just dusted. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
Corabeth smiled gently. “I don’t mind, Isaac. As your wife, it is my duty to be helpful and industrious.”
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but--”
“But what?”
He grinned. “I just don’t want you to feel like the hired help.”
A twinkle took hold of Corabeth’s eyes. “Well, if I am to be hired help, Mr. Godsey, we should certainly discuss my salary.”
“Salary?” Ike laughed.
“Salary. Compensation for services rendered.” Corabeth was grinning broadly now.
“I think it’s against the law to pay for that sort of service, honey.” Ike kissed his wife softly on the cheek. “But, after last night, I’m willing to think about it.”
“Mr. Godsey!” A blush covered his wife’s face, spreading right down into her collar. “I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you.”
“Well, if I’ve got a vote in this....” Ike pulled her into a warm embrace. “I’ll pick the kiss.”
She blushed again, but granted him the kiss. Before she knew it, he was sitting in the rocking chair, holding her in his lap. So wrapped up were they in their own little world that Ike and Corabeth did not hear the bell on the door. Nor did they notice John Boy Walton for a moment or two as he stood there, watching the show.
“It’s okay,” John Boy chuckled as they scurried to their feet. “You’re married.”
Corabeth watched the scene from her vantage point behind the counter. “Aimee, I don’t really feel this is an appropriate moment to share with one’s daughter.”
“Is there something wrong with loving your husband?” Aimee sat on the soda cooler, a huge smile brightening her entire expression. “You were sweet.”
“Sweet, maybe. But I--I just don’t feel comfortable....”
Aimee hopped off the cooler and strode to her mother’s side. “You wanted to see something happy. This is where you took us.”
“Where I took us?”
“It’s what I tried to explain earlier. You are controlling this. You wanted to see something which proved your life wasn’t all failures and disappointments. You took us here.” Her mother’s look of obvious discomposure seemed to amuse her. “Would it be easier if I went away?”
Corabeth favored the girl with a suspicious gaze. “You never really go away, do you?”
“No. Not since you were born. I’m your guide; it’s my job. But if it would make you feel better, I can pretend. That way, you can get this mushy stuff out of the way.”
As the young girl winked and skipped out of the store, Corabeth rolled her eyes. Death was nothing at all like what she’d expected.
“I control this,” she murmured to herself. The fact that, unchecked, her mind had brought her only to sadness and failure was fairly disconcerting. It was only when she purposely tried to think of something positive that she’d relived the scene in the post office. “Am I really such a pessimist?”
The figures from her last memory had faded into mist, and she walked around the shell of the store alone. The place fairly glimmered around her. She looked at a chair, and heard laughter. A glance at the cash register brought the smell of flour and molasses being put into a paper sack. She wandered around, bringing herself to places where the walls and floor and furniture seemed to sparkle with energy, amazed at the memories which sprung around her like jack-in-the-boxes.
Corabeth found herself in the kitchen, standing next to the stove. She felt a sudden burst of cold air, and the smell of bacon filled her nostrils.
“Hi, honey.” Ike Godsey came into the kitchen, buttoning the cuff of his heavy dress shirt as he placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “Wow, that was some storm last night. I thought it was going to blow the roof off the place!”
She jumped as she felt his kiss. Again, something had changed. No longer was she merely watching the memories; now, it appeared, she would relive them. She looked down and saw the bacon beginning to burn. Catching herself, she took the pan off the heat. “Storm?”
Her husband looked out from behind the ice box door. “Don’t tell me you slept through that whopper?” He took a bottle of milk from the ice box, and put it on the table.
“No, I just--”
She was interrupted by the phone ringing in the store. “Hold that thought,” Ike quipped. “I’ll be right back.”
Corabeth let out a huge breath as he disappeared into the store. Try as she might, she was having a hard time placing this memory. Bacon, storm, dress shirt--she dredged the recesses of her mind trying to make a connection.
Ike made it for her. “Holy mackerel!” He ran back into the house. “Corabeth, you gotta see this.” He turned off the stove and pulled her by the arm into the store.
“Really, Mr. Godsey, I don’t know what you are up to!”
Leading her to the store front window, he turned her to face the morning. “See for yourself.”
“Oh...my...lord...” was all she could think of to say. Looking out through the plate glass window, Corabeth could see nothing but white. Snow covered the road, halfway up the gas pumps, up to the porch itself. Shards of ice dangled from the porch roof, glittering and twinkling in the gray light. It was as if Mother Nature had gone out for ice cream and brought enough back for everybody.
“That was Miss Fanny on the phone. She said the sheriff told her almost all the roads in Jefferson County are closed due to the storm. Trees are down all over the place, and they’re expecting another one this afternoon. Over in Charlottesville, the power is out in half the town.” He grinned, looking for all the world like a fourteen year old boy presented with an unexpected school holiday. “Reverend Fordwick has canceled services today. Come on!” Before she could say anything, Ike was bustling her into a warm coat.
“Mr. Godsey, I--”
“It’s our first snow, Corabeth. We have to make a snowman.”
She stared at her husband as if he’d gone completely mad. Afterlife forgotten, Corabeth had fallen into the role full-heartedly. “A snowman? I hardly think that we should--”
“Aw, come on, honey.” He was already out on the porch, slipping on the icy surface just for a moment. “Just a little one, for good luck.”
She stepped out onto the porch, clutching herself against the bitter frost. “Good luck or no, I am most certainly not going to play in the snow like a hooligan.”
Ike stood knee-deep in powdery white snow and grinned conspiratorially. “Oh, I get it. You don’t know how to make a snowman, and you’re too embarrassed to tell me.” He turned back to his work with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s all right. I understand. I guess folks in Doe Hill just don’t know these things.”
His comment was rudely cut short by a snowball to the back of his head. He whirled in his tracks and saw Corabeth armed with another projectile, which she let loose aimed directly for his chest.
Upon impact, Ike gave her an astonished look. “You realize, of course,” he said. “That this means war.” A third snowball landed smack on his right shoulder.
“That was for Doe Hill!”
The subsequent break-down in communications between warring factions did not by any means dampen their fun. In fact, by the time they dragged themselves, soaking and exhausted, back into the store, Ike and Corabeth were laughing so hard they could barely stand up. Ike took her coat, which was covered with melting white powder, and hung it in the cloak room just inside the store. Their faces and hands were bright red, and both were shivering.
“I think we better go into the house. It’s warmer, and we can get out of these wet things.”
“Good idea, honey.” Ike made sure the door was locked behind them, then followed his wife into the house. She stood in front of the stove, hands wrapped tightly around her waist as she tried to get warm. Ike snuggled up to her, resting his chin on her shoulder as he stood behind her. “Mmmm, this is better.”
“I can make some cocoa,” she whispered as he began to kiss her neck. “Then we’d better change. If we’re not going to church, we have several chores we can do around the house. You’ll want to shovel the snow around the pumps for tomorrow, and I can--”
Ike shook his head. “Nope,” he growled into the curve of her neck.
She turned a softly scathing look at her husband. “‘Nope?’”
He deftly unbuttoned her dress at the waist. “Nope.” A second button succumbed to his fingers. He traced the soft white skin of her belly, sending shivers of a different kind through her as he turned her to face him. “Nope.”
Corabeth pulled herself out of the memory, not wanting to play this game anymore. The rest of the story was simple enough--Ike had conned her out of chores and into the bedroom for the entire day. It was scandalous, but even now she thought back with a certain degree of delight at the memory.
Grief cut through her like a blade. She didn’t know what was crueler--remembering the pain or the pleasure.
“Life is but a walking shadow,” Aimee quoted from the kitchen table, where she sat drinking a glass of milk. “A poor player that struts and frets upon the stage and is seen no more. An idiotic tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
“Well, I’m glad the tuition we paid for finishing school didn’t go to waste.” And the subject was closed--for the moment, at least.
The years passed, and Flora and the shop keeper grew comfortable with each other. As with all married folk, they had their share of happiness and tumult, wealth and struggle. As the store keeper grew to love his wife more each year, she learned to care for him as well. They had a daughter, a beautiful child with blonde curls and a sweet disposition. Flora poured her energy into this child, determined the girl would never want for opportunity. And her husband agreed, sacrificing and struggling to make a comfortable living for the three of them.
Still, in the back of Flora’s mind, was the witch’s curse. Her husband would give her a compliment, and she’d wonder how a more articulate man would have spoken. Their garden would bloom, and she’d think how nice a rich man’s garden would be. No matter what he did to please her, a part of her would always wonder what more could have been, had she only waited, had she only followed her true path.
It was starting to snow again as Aimee poured a cup of coffee for her mother, who sat quietly at the kitchen table. “Here,” she said, putting the cup into the older woman’s hand.
Corabeth said nothing except a mumbled “thank you.”
“You wanna talk about it?” Aimee reached into the cupboard and pulled down some crackers before sitting down.
“What is there to talk about?” Corabeth listened to the wind howling against the roof. “I didn’t know it stormed in heaven.”
“Who says this is heaven?” God-fearing Baptist that she was, Corabeth didn’t even blink. Aimee sighed. “What are you thinking?”
“Don’t you know? I thought you knew everything.” She traced a pattern on the table surface with her fingertip, oblivious to the watchful eye of the young girl sitting next to her.
“You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“How does it work?” Corabeth looked up from her coffee with dull eyes. “You’re my guide, but you’re also my daughter. How could you have been with me all the time, from the moment I was born, and still have been born yourself? What about the times you weren’t with me? You didn’t even know me until you were almost ten years old.”
Aimee rested her chin on the palm of her hand. “You think too much. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“I’m sitting in my own kitchen, drinking coffee with a ten-year-old spirit guide, watching scenes from the life I’ve just left, and you tell me I think too much?” She paused, catching herself unprepared for her own vehemence. “If you are supposed to be the teacher, why choose to be my daughter?”
“Didn’t you learn anything from being a mother?” Aimee offered. At Corabeth’s shrug, she said, “Besides, who says I didn’t go there to learn from you?”
“If that is the case, I fear you were sorely disappointed.” She took a long sip of coffee. “The only things you could have learned from me were by negative example. How not to do what you wanted with your life. How not to be patient. How not to finish anything you ever started.”
“How to overcome shyness. How to learn from your mistakes. How to love someone, even when all the odds are against that love. How to forgive. How to be brave.” Aimee nibbled on the corner of a saltine. “How to let go. I thought you’d never learn that one, but you did...eventually.”
Corabeth looked up at her daughter’s serious expression. They were both remembering the same thing.
Like all people, Flora and her husband grew older. Their daughter married and went away, eventually having a daughter of her own.
Washington was stifling this time of the year. Corabeth tugged at her collar, trying not to be impatient...and failing miserably. “Aimee, are you ready yet?”
Her six-year-old granddaughter came running from the bedroom, half-dressed, all chocolate-colored curls and energy. Aimee, normally graceful and composed, scooted out after her daughter. “Not quite, Mother.”
Corabeth watched as a giggling Beth neatly avoided her mother’s grasp. With a sniff, she seated herself dramatically in the easy chair to wait. “In my day, little girls did not run around like...” She paused, not knowing exactly how to describe the high-spirited little gadfly who insisted on calling her “Gram.”
Beth ducked away from her mother’s arms, and ran sprawling into her unsuspecting grandmother’s lap. Oblivious to Corabeth’s look of horror, the child dissolved into fits of laughter as she planted a quick kiss on her cheek and bounced back into the bedroom.
“That’s it,” Aimee panted, leaning on the arm of her mother’s chair. “No more Crunchie Puffs for that child. Ever!” At Corabeth’s disapproving sigh, Aimee slumped slightly. “Oh, come on, Mama. It’s not every day she gets to go to the Zoo. She’s excited.”
“Well, I hardly believe a little discipline would be out of line, Aimee. You know what I always say--”
“Mother, I know what you always say.” She leaned over, kissing the top of Corabeth’s head as she steeled herself for another round of chase-the-child. “You always say what you always say, so why say it now?”
Corabeth pursed her lips. It wasn’t her child, running around like a Banshee. She’d promised Mr. Godsey she wouldn’t interfere with Aimee’s parenting while she was up in Washington for a visit, but it hadn’t been easy. It had only been two days, and she’d bitten her lips so much she could barely feel them anymore.
After Jeff had been unexpectedly called up for duty in Viet Nam, the Godseys had begged their daughter to returned to Walton’s Mountain in the meantime. It was a futile request. Aimee stubbornly refused to leave their rented home, despite financial concerns and the headaches of taking care of a child alone. She didn’t want to take Beth out of her school, she’d said. She’d wanted to give the child some stability while her father was away, she’d said.
Corabeth’s visit here was by way of a compromise, and she knew it. Aimee had always had an independent streak, and no amount of cajoling or pleading would change her mind once it was set. As a squeal of laughter burst from the bedroom, Corabeth smiled ironically. It was a sort of poetic justice that Aimee’s child was just as high-spirited and independent as her mother.
Before long, the morning miracle occurred, and Aimee managed to corral Beth and finish dressing her. She followed her mother out of the bedroom, wearing dark blue dungarees and a light pink shirt. On her feet were a pair of sturdy, if somewhat scuffed, sneakers.
“Oh, Aimee! Is that what you’re having my granddaughter wear in public?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Dungarees? A tee-shirt? How are people going to know if she’s a boy or a girl?”
Aimee rolled her eyes just enough as she began packing the picnic basket. “For Christ sake, Mother, we’re going to the Zoo, not brunch at the White House.”
“There is no need to take the Lord’s name in vain.” Corabeth sat stiffly in the easy chair, wondering where this girl had gotten her manners. Certainly not Doe Hill Academy! “I certainly never let you go out improperly dressed at that age.”
“No, that you didn’t.” Aimee packed the last bottle of soda into the basket, then reached out her hand for Beth. “Come on, Munchkin. The monkeys are getting impatient.”
“Are there flying monkeys, Mama? Like the Wicked Witch had?”
Corabeth just caught sight of Aimee’s surreptitious glance as she said, “No, not at this zoo, baby. Washington is outside of the Wicked Witch’s jurisdiction.”
